


New Day (The Dreaming of You Remix)

by Daegaer



Category: Good Omens
Genre: Angels, Demons, Italy, Love, M/M, Priests, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-16
Updated: 2004-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:21:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ettore dreams of friendship and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Day (The Dreaming of You Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [New Day](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/8599) by Louise Lux. 



> Written for Remix Redux 2004. Thank you to Tosca's Kiss for beta-reading!

Ettore woke from a clear and bright dream, and saw his whole life mapped out ahead of him. He could stay as he was; he could be a hard working priest dedicating his life to the poor and those who needed him. Perhaps he could rise in the Church, and someday have the authority and power to help people on a wider scale. That was a great good, one that he could in all conscience aspire to. But he saw himself, no longer youthful, tired and worn out with caring for others and with no one to care for him. Being young, he had never before thought of the time when he would be old, and he shivered in his narrow bed.

The dream showed him other possibilities, and he clung to it, even as it scattered in vague fragments. He and Angelo had been walking in a vast and beautiful garden, with Angelo telling him about art and life and love. When his friend had turned to face him under the shadow of the enormous spreading trees, he had seen that he was shining as if lit from within, and Ettore had known at all once that he loved Angelo wholly and completely. He looked at the bare, white walls of his little room and tried to keep the feeling the peace and joy the dream had given him. It fled from him, and he spent the rest of the night wakeful and cold.

When he saw Angelo again he was embarrassed, afraid that his friend would read his love in his face and scorn him. But Angelo didn't seem to notice and took him to lunch, chatting about mosaics and the weather. By the time they were strolling in the Vatican Gardens, Ettore had quite lost his nervousness and was laughing as Angelo got more and more excited in his descriptions of books he had been studying.

'The colours!' Angelo said. 'They're so well preserved, hardly faded at all by the years. It's just as I remem -- as I imagine it would have looked when new.'

'You and your books,' Ettore said fondly. 'There's nothing you love more, is there?'

'Well, I'm sure there is,' Angelo said, and looked like he was thinking hard. He began to go pink, and Ettore laughed at his consternation. 'It's just that they're so full of _ideas_ , and _dedication_ , and they're so _beautiful_ ,' Angelo said, joining in Ettore's laughter. 'They're like -- like people, the best of people, distilled. And they last,' he finished, his laughter fading away. 'They last.'

Ettore smiled at his sudden melancholy and took him off to see the new roses, and soon Angelo was smiling cheerfully again.

Later in the week, as he stood waiting for Angelo to arrive, he thought that maybe he could find a way to tell him of his love, some way that would not disgust or alarm him. He thought of Angelo's kind face, the way that his smile could shift from soft and reverent when he talked about art to utterly wicked when he was poking fun at someone. The way he shook hands, holding Ettore's hand in his own soft-skinned one. The way he could shift from one language to another without hesitation. Apart from Italian, Ettore knew only Latin, but Angelo could speak to lost and tired tourists in their own tongues. Ettore had asked him if he'd been a translator after the war and he had just smiled and said he'd always been good at languages.

Angelo's Latin was especially beautiful, so good that Ettore thought that at some point he might have trained for the priesthood. Or had perhaps even been a priest, although Ettore never asked that, not wanting to hurt his friend with sad memories. The thought of leaving the priesthood was terrifying, and he didn't like to imagine that Angelo had ever failed in anything.

His plan to be subtle didn't work.

'Have you ever been in love?' he blurted out as Angelo was ordering dessert.

'Once or twice,' Angelo said. 'But not for a long time.' He looked searchingly and kindly into Ettore's face. 'It's awfully distracting,' he said gently. 'Remember what St Paul says. A single man can devote himself wholeheartedly to the things of God, while a married man has to divide himself and worry about pleasing both his wife and God.'

'But is the distraction worth it?' Ettore asked, his fingers white around the spoon he was holding under the table. The pain in his hand gave him the strength to look Angelo in the face.

Angelo frowned slightly and sipped his wine as the waiter came up with their desserts. He didn't answer. Perhaps Angelo really had been a priest, Ettore thought. Perhaps he had left the priesthood for love.

'Perhaps,' Angelo said. 'For some people.'

Ettore said nothing, just slowly ate his water ice when it was brought to the table. When Angelo suggested a walk he silently accompanied him, looking at the flowers and trees and letting Angelo's voice wash over him. As they paused under a huge and spreading chestnut tree, Ettore looked at Angelo and saw his face was shining with light and pleasure as he talked about some old painting he'd seen. The dream came rushing back, and Ettore felt poised on the brink of a cliff, as if he were about to be borne away by the winds.

'I think it's worth it,' Ettore said.

'Sorry? What?' Angelo said, smiling at him.

'The distraction,' Ettore said, and leaned forward and kissed Angelo carefully.

There was a terrible moment when Angelo stood there, frozen, and then a far more terrible and wonderful moment when Ettore found himself pulled close, one of Angelo's hands caressing his waist, the other on the back of his head gently holding him in place, although there was nowhere else he wanted to be. He hadn't thought that a man's lips would be so soft or that embracing a man would be so dizzying to the senses. Angelo smelled fresh and clean and felt solid and warm. Ettore was unprepared to be shoved back with surprising strength, hitting the tree behind him. He blinked in confusion at the horror in Angelo's eyes.

'No. No,' Angelo said, shaking his head. 'I'm so sorry, Ettore, I'm so very sorry.'

He whirled around and ran. Ettore stood there in shock, and then turned and ran as well, not stopping until he was safe in his little room. He flung himself on his knees and bowed his head, but found that the only thing he could pray for was for Angelo to come back. He flung himself up again, and pulled out the drawer of his desk. It came right out in his hands, and he dropped it on the floor, bending to seize up some notepaper. He didn't think about what he would write, terrified that if he stopped for an instant he would never say anything. _I love you_ , he wrote, and _I know there is no place now in the priesthood for me_ , and _Please, please talk to me_. He filled pages, not stopping to read it over, folded it into an envelope and ran out to post it before he could lose his nerve.

When he returned to his room he found that the energy that had possessed him while he wrote had quite gone. He lay upon his bed, and then sat up slowly, fear creeping over him. There was a man sitting on the chair by the desk. It was impossible not to have seen him, yet Ettore had seen no one when he entered. The man was tall and impeccably dressed. He regarded Ettore in grim silence, his face unreadable and his eyes shielded with very dark sunglasses.

'Who are you? What do you want?' Ettore said.

'I'm a friend of Angelo's,' the man said. 'I want to talk to you.' He leaned forward and said angrily, 'I want you to leave him in peace.'

Ettore jumped off the bed, his fear fading away in a wave of embarrassed fury.

'Who are you to say what I can and can't do?' he said. 'I've never seen you before in my life, Angelo's never mentioned a friend who creeps around behind his back. Get out of my room!'

'Be quiet,' the man said, his thin face cold. 'You have no idea what you're doing to him, and I'm not going to let you go on.'

The scorn in his voice was enraging, and before Ettore knew what he was doing he had thrown a punch at the intruder. The man didn't bother to stand to avoid it, just threw up a hand quickly and seized Ettore's hand tight. Only then did he stand, uncoiling from the straight-backed chair and keeping a tight hold on the captive fist. Ettore found himself forced backward with no apparent effort from the man, and pushed down on his bed once more.

'If you've quite finished being stupid, _Father_ Benicio, you can agree _right now_ to stop breaking my friend's heart. Not that I actually care if you agree or not,' the man said, an ugly smile on his face. Ettore tried to break free and found his arm twisted horribly. He gritted his teeth and kept quiet. 'I'm going to let you go now,' the man said, 'and you're going to behave yourself, all right? I don't have anything against you personally, I just don't want you hurting Angelo more than you already have.'

'I haven't hurt him,' Ettore said, thrusting away the memory of Angelo's expression before he had run away. 'I would _never_ hurt him. I love him!'

'Which is why you're hurting him so much. I know you don't mean to, which is why I'm doing you the courtesy of speaking to you,' the man said. The anger drained from his face and he sat in the chair again, watching Ettore closely. 'I know him,' he said, 'he'd do everything he could to please you and make your life pleasant, and in return you'd hurt him. Fifty or sixty years down the road you'd hurt him more than you can understand. I can't let that happen. Don't worry, I won't harm you.'

Ettore flinched back as the man reached out. 'Get away from me,' he said, his burst of rage turning to unease. He was very sure he didn't want this man to touch him again.

'Don't be afraid,' the man said, and gave a little laugh. 'Well, why not?' he said, as if to himself. '"Angelo", indeed.' He stood smoothly and grinned down at Ettore. He spread his arms in a curious and formal gesture and said, 'Fear not.'

The room flooded with white light and Ettore stared entranced into brightness.

* * * * *

  


Ettore straightened, stretching his back and arms. He had never realised he owned so many things. Most of them he no longer needed, but he should decide what to do with the rest. He looked down at the piles of his belongings stacked neatly on the bed and packed the clothes and books he was taking in the cheap suitcase that he had brought with him from the country years ago. The other books could go to his friends or to a library, he thought. Someone else could decide. He hung up his cassock and put the dog-collars on the desk. It wouldn't hurt to read over the letter one more time, he thought and picked it up. He could see nothing in it that needed changing. It laid out his doubts about his vocation, asked for the process of being released from his vows to begin, and calmly stated that all correspondence should be directed to his parents' address, where he would be staying. He thought he'd done a good job with it, it was confident but not arrogant, definite but not rude. It was probably the best-written letter he'd ever produced he thought, a giddy feeling of lightness stealing over him as he sealed the envelope. He closed the suitcase and picked it up, walking cheerfully down the stairs and leaving the letter on the hall table for the Monsignor to find later.

His train did not leave till the morning, so Ettore slept that night in a cheap and spotless hotel near the station. His dreams were full of laughter and love and dear friends. They faded in the morning, leaving behind only happiness and hope as he set out into the bright, warm day.  



End file.
